


Dancing Lights

by sconelover



Series: Indian Holidays [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz Pitch's Forearms, Canon Divergence, Dancing, Deepavali, Dessert & Sweets, Diwali, Fanart, Festival of Lights, Fluff, Getting Together, Holidays, Indian Holidays, Indian food, Kurtas, M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, forearms, let it snow, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Written for theLet it Snow Zinein December 2020!Simon is having a wonderful time at Diwali, a celebration full of lights, colours, and all the samosas he can eat. That is, until he sees Baz Pitch standing across the garden.A fluffy getting-together fic, with plenty of dancing, desserts, and forearms. Including some gorgeousartby thehoneyedhufflepuff 💜
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Indian Holidays [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018413
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55
Collections: Let It Snow Zine





	Dancing Lights

**Author's Note:**

> It was such a delight to contribute to the Let it Snow Zine this holiday season. Check out the [PDF version of the zine here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/12GXUH0kMS5MN4iFYbmjb6U8K9LYel8oF/view) for the full experience—it is truly joyful and adorable.
> 
> Thanks to [ashspren,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren) [aralias,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias) [annabellelux,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux/works) and [amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings) for beta reading! And the BIGGEST thank you to the lovely [Ash](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/) for making this art piece in like 24 hours flat. I love you all.  
> (Also I just noticed all your names start with A 😂 )
> 
> Finally, thank you to [selkie](https://subparselkie.tumblr.com/) and [seb ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/pseuds/pipsqueakparker/works?page=1)for putting this zine together. I loved working on the zine team with y'all and warding off the tigers, etc. You both are superstars and I'd gladly do it all again. ❤️

**Simon**

I tug at my scrunchy trousers, trying to get comfortable. “I don’t remember you mentioning me having to wear a _dress,”_ I grumble. 

Penny rolls her eyes. She’s dressed in a purple sequined top, long skirt, and sheer scarf, with a sliver of her stomach poking out. “It’s called a _kurta,_ Simon, and it’s _traditional.”_

“Well, it’s weird.” 

She steers me to a mirror and straightens the tunic. It’s blue and stiff-collared, with intricate embroidered patterns all over. “You look fine,” she declares. “Handsome. The aunties will love you.”

I make a face.

She lets me keep my own shoes instead of forcing me into pointy ones, thank magic; then we’re loading into her family’s car with her siblings. Professor Bunce cheerfully recounts Diwali’s origins as we drive: 

“In short, the exiled prince Rama defeated the demon king, rescued his wife, Sita, and returned home after 14 years. The villagers lit their path on the moonless night with thousands of small oil lamps. Now,” she explains, “Diwali is a celebration of the triumph of light over darkness and good over evil.”

Seems right up my alley. Classic Chosen One stuff. Save the princess, kill the monsters.

“The day after is the Hindu New Year,” she adds. “So really, it’s one big party.”

The celebration is an explosion of colour in someone’s humongous back garden. An archway spells out _HAPPY DIWALI!_ There are multicoloured lights and hanging paper lanterns, clay teardrop-shaped _diyas_ holding tealights lining the walkways, and—best of all—trays and trays of _food._

People mill about in the garden, snacking and drinking cocktails or mango lassi at high tables topped with bursts of vibrant flowers. Kids are doing crafts on the grass, and in the corner, a lady is applying henna— _“mehndi,_ Simon,” Penny says—on people’s hands. 

Everyone’s wearing flashy Indian clothes—the men mostly in _kurtas_ like me, and the women dressed like Penny, in draping _saris_ or dresses.

We’re surrounded by twinkling lights. Upbeat music blares through the speakers. It’s so warm and vivid, and I can’t help smiling; it’s more festive than any celebration I’ve been to.

And it smells fucking _amazing._

When Penny invited me to join her this year for a Diwali celebration, I didn’t expect something this grand and wonderful.

“Can we eat first?” I ask.

We make a beeline for the food table. It’s all vegetarian, but enough of it is fried that I don’t mind. (“What’re these?” “Pakoras.” “And these?” “Also pakoras.”) I load up two plates with paneer _makhanwala,_ samosas, _aloo tikkis,_ something called _malai kofta,_ and a teetering pile of garlic naan.

My good mood comes screeching to a halt when I turn around and see none other than Baz Pitch standing across the garden from me.

He’s talking to a plump Indian woman I don’t recognise, holding a drink by the stem. He’s wearing a deep green _kurta_ and fucking pointy shoes and, worst of all, he’s somehow pulling them off. 

What the fuck is _he_ doing here?

I elbow Penny, nearly upsetting my naan stack. She follows my gaze and groans. “Seven snakes, Simon. And here I thought we could go one weekend without Baz-talk.”

“It’s not my fault he’s here!” I say. “He’s _stalking_ me, Penny.”

She rolls her eyes.

The longer I stare at Baz the angrier I get. I can’t believe he followed me out to fucking Hounslow. Probably wants to get me where I’m unprotected. All the Normals here won’t suspect a thing; he’ll corner me while I’m weak and full of delicious Indian food and…

I’m setting my plates down and marching over to him before I know it. How dare he show up looking like _that?_ His inky hair is down in waves instead of slicked back like usual—probably it’s a distraction so he can lure me away from the crowd—

“Simon!” Penny hisses, grabbing my sleeve. “Are you mad?”

“He’s _plotting,”_ I insist. “Why else would he follow me here?” 

“Wait—”

I wrench myself free.

Baz politely excuses himself and turns around cooly, as if he was expecting me. “Snow,” he says, lip curling. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I say. “We both know why you’re here.”

He arches one condescending eyebrow. “Because… Dev invited me?”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

Penny catches up, juggling our plates. “Dev’s half-Indian; they’re cousins!”

“How was I supposed to know that?!”

“Well, you do seem to be awfully obsessed with the intricacies of my life,” Baz drawls. “Have you finally tired of it, then?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I growl. “You’re literally stalking me!” 

“I thought we _just_ established—”

“Stop!” Penny screeches, looking between us desperately. “Can’t you be civil for once? It’s Diwali, for Morgana’s sake.”

I glare at Baz. “You ruin everything.”

“There’s nothing suspicious about having fun with my family, Snow.”

“That’s exactly what someone suspicious would say! Anyway, you don’t know how to have _fun.”_

I’m fuming and he can sense it. “Careful, Snow. You wouldn’t want to go off here—I’ve been told there are enough firecrackers already.”

I growl. “You’re so—”

“Enough!” Penny says fiercely. “This is a _positive_ holiday. Make nice or else!”

“I can’t!” I protest. “Your mum said Diwali’s about good over evil. Well, Baz is evil!”

“I’ve been perfectly civil this entire time,” says Baz, taking a sip of his drink. I ball up my fists, just itching to knock it out of his fingers.

“Liar.”

“Simon,” Penny warns. 

“Whose side are you on?!” I seize control of my plates and shove a samosa in my mouth to calm myself down. 

“My own. And I don’t need your petty rivalry ruining Diwali,” she snaps.

“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll try not to cause a scene. But only because I want to eat.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Baz says dryly, waving us away.

* * *

I’m loading up on _rasmalai_ (sort of dessert… dumplings? In a sauce made of ice cream?) and _jalebi_ (spiral-shaped, neon orange fried batter soaked in sugar syrup—a dentist’s nightmare), when an imposing shadow steps up behind me. 

I know without looking that it’s Baz. “Stop following me,” I grumble.

“Suppose I’ll just starve then, because you said so,” he drawls.

“Do you even need to eat this stuff?” I point to the back garden. “I swear I saw a cute little bunny over there.”

He ignores this and eyes my full plate. “It’s common courtesy to leave some for everyone else, you know.”

“Go away,” I growl. Baz knows exactly how to rile me up; it’s like he’s tinkering with all the wrong wires in my head.

He doesn’t, probably just to spite me. Instead, he follows me across the garden in silence as I search for an empty high-top table, eventually settling at one near the crafts. People are making gigantic patterns on the ground out of colourful flowers, powders, and grains.

“Are you boys here for the _rangoli_ competition?”

A bubbly middle-aged woman in a bright yellow sari approaches us _._ “What’s that?” I ask through a mouthful of jalebi _._

“It’s an art form we traditionally make at the entrance of a home,” she explains, pointing at the patterns around us, “to welcome good luck for the New Year!”

“Oh.” 

“I’m so glad you’re participating!” 

“Wait, we didn’t—”

She drags me and Baz away, pushes us down onto the floor, and bustles off.

Baz and I make panicked eye contact, on the same page for once. Both of us want to be _out_ of this situation. “Let’s go,” I whisper, and we try and stand up.

The woman returns at light speed, placing an armful of pots on the ground in front of us. “You can make any design you want. First place wins the honour of setting off the first _phatakra!_ That’s a firecracker,” she clarifies.

Baz shakes his head. (He’s _flammable.)_ “No, thank—”

“Have fun!” she says, and leaves us stranded.

Baz is seething. “We are _not_ doing this, Snow.”

“I don’t want this any more than you do!”

Around us, unsuspecting partners are being ushered onto the floor by overenthusiastic aunties. 

Baz and I stare blankly at the art materials. “We could just… not,” I say.

He looks around at the overbearing aunties and sighs, resigned. “If we're going to be forced to do this, we might as well win.”

Baz will do almost anything to prove a point. “How? Do you have art skills hidden up your arse?”

“No need to be crude.” He peeks into the various pots. “I think we can manage. With a little help.”

“You can’t use magic,” I growl, “that’s cheating.”

He ignores me. I grab a handful of bright red flowers and another of red powder. “Let’s make a dragon,” I decide. 

“Feeling guilty about the one you murdered in cold blood first year?”

“Accidentally!”

He harrumphs. “Whatever lets you sleep at night, Snow. Anyway, I happen to be quite fond of dragons. And it’ll make a fine _rangoli_ pattern. So, yes. Fine.”

I can’t believe Baz just _agreed_ with me.

He leans forward and starts crafting an outline of orange lentils. I can see right down his _kurta_ like this; a curl of dark chest hair peeks out from the slit in the collar. I tug at my own. (It really shouldn’t be this warm in November.)

Baz creates a blast of fire from the dragon’s mouth using powders while I draw out its wings. I fill them in with red and yellow flowers to approximate scales. 

We seem to have silently agreed to not talk to each other except when absolutely necessary; it’s almost nice, not clawing at each other’s throats for once. 

The dragon looks a little… clumsy when we’re done. Baz frowns. He covertly casts, **_“Puff the_ ** **Magic** **_Dragon!”_ **

I try to obscure my wonder at his perfect spellwork as the dragon shifts in small ways until it’s dynamic, nearly lifelike. It still looks like something we made, but infused with that extra touch only magic can give something.

“Where’d you learn that one?” It comes out like a scoff, thank Merlin, rather than awe.

Baz tucks his wand away and looks down. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was embarrassed. “I use it to entertain my siblings,” he mutters.

“Adorable.”

He gives me a murderous look.

“Oh, look how wonderful!” yellow-sari aunty cries. “Don’t you two make a great team.”

We win, to my dismay. Of course we do, because Baz fucking charmed our dragon to be awesome. 

Penny half-congratulates me (“See? Not so bad”) and walks with me back to the desserts.

I drag Penny to a table near Baz’s and Dev’s. “What now?” she asks.

“I just want to keep an eye on him,” I explain, shoving a _jalebi_ in my mouth. “That’s all.”

Penny’s parents appear with a camera and I hurry to swallow my mouthful of sweets without dying in the process. (That’d be a great way for the Chosen One to go out—death by _jalebi.)_ Penny and I pose for a few pictures before her mum and I get distracted by the _mithai._

After returning to the _mithai_ display for seconds (well, thirds), I walk back to our table to see that Baz and Dev have inexplicably joined Penny.

Oh, _fuck no._

We stand in awkward silence for a minute. I watch a lock of Baz’s hair fall across his forehead as he delicately picks up a _mithai._ His face softens as he takes a tiny bite. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat before. Penny's glaring like I'm going to start hurling accusations at Baz. (I wasn't... I was just thinking that he should be eating more. He's too thin.)

“How smashing, it’s the whole gang from Watford!” Professor Bunce has ambled over with his camera again. If he’s noticed that half the “gang” are his family’s political enemies, he doesn’t say anything. “Say _paneer!”_

“Dad,” Penny complains, just as the flash bulb goes off in our faces. 

* * *

Night is falling when a girl about our age wearing a pink dress-thing approaches us. “Hey Penny!”

“Hi, Saira,” she says. “This is Simon, my best friend from school.”

Saira raises her eyebrows. _“Friend,_ or…”

“Friend,” Penny and I both say in identical tones of voice. I laugh. 

“Well, nice to meet you,” she says. “So, a bunch of us are putting together an impromptu _dandiya_ at the front.” Saira hooks a thumb around the side of the house. “Wanna join?”

 _“Dandiya?_ ” Penny looks skeptical.

“Yeah! Partner dancing with sticks—”

“I know,” Penny says impatiently. “But why?”

“You know what they say. Old-fashioned Gujurati speed-dating!”

“No one’s said that since 1843—”

“Yeah, but there’s some new guys here none of us have met before. Did you see Devon brought his hot cousin?”

My jaw physically drops. “You mean Baz?”

She grins. “Oh my god, _yes._ He’s so fit, right? Looks like a model in Indian clothes. Wait, do you know him? Can you introduce—”

“Sorry,” Penny interrupts loudly. “We’re going to sit out of this one.”

“Wait—” She’s literally trying to frog-march me away, but I dig my heels in. “Penny, I wanna go. If Baz is going, I want to! And it’ll be fun, won’t it?”

“It’ll get all flirty and drunk,” she complains. “These things always do. Plus, I can’t dance.”

“Exactly why I have to keep an eye on him! What if he gets some poor girl in a cupboard and… and sucks her blood!”

Penny rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “I can’t believe we’re back to following Baz around…” 

“Is that a yes?”

Penny grabs a glass of champagne off a passing tray and downs it in one gulp. “Fine– Hey, I’m going to need another one of those!”

Baz is out front on the lawn, looking cool as ever. He’s enjoying all the attention—he and Dev are surrounded by girls. He makes eye contact with me when I come in and smirks, hitching up his evil eyebrow.

My stomach coils. “I hate him,” I grumble.

Penny huffs as she ties her _dupatta_ into a knot on her shoulder. “Just ignore him.” 

Saira bangs two ribbon-wrapped sticks together to quiet the crowd. “Hey! So for newcomers, dandiya is basically a traditional dance with rotating partners. Take your shoes off and grab some sticks.” She points to a folding table that also features a bottle of vodka and a tray of steaming _gulab jamun_ that’s been nicked from the party.

Penny gets us sticks while Saira reviews the dance steps. I can’t get it right––you hit your sticks, your partner’s to the left, to the right, then your own, then your partner’s again, then spin… 

The dance floor is a wide lawn, ringed by hundreds of diyas. “Make two lines!” Saira calls. 

She sets herself up across from Baz, of course. I watch him intently. 

“People are going to think you like him,” Penny says dryly.

I whip my head away immediately. “Fuck no! Why?”

“Back in the day in India,” she explains, “before people could like, date for real, this was the substitute. You’d make eye contact with the person you liked, the person you want, waiting for your chance to be their partner.”

“I don’t want to be Baz’s _partner.”_

“Then stop staring,” Penny says. “He’s not going to do anything here.”

I turn over the colourful wooden stick in my hand. “Guess this could be an impromptu stake…”

“Nicks and fucking Slick, Simon!”

“Kidding.”

Upbeat, drum-heavy music blares loudly through speakers, and we start. I try to keep up, hopping right, left, but when I try to kick out my right foot, I trip. Penny cackles. “Come on, here– hit mine, again, and yours, mine, spin!”

The lines shift clockwise. I keep stumbling over my feet—I know Penny said not to, but I’m still watching Baz. To make sure he’s not up to anything…

He’s a graceful dancer. Of course he is. He completes the steps fluidly, perfectly in time with the music, never hesitating or misstepping. His hair keeps falling in his face as he hops, and he blows it out of the way.

“Watch it!” the guy next to me says as I nearly clock him with my stick.

The next time I look up, Baz is watching _me._ (Our paranoia is definitely mutual.) 

This is the most free I’ve seen Baz—his hair’s swinging all over the place, his eyes are almost alight, his bare feet are moving fluidly, energetically. 

It occurs to me that Baz Pitch actually _likes_ dancing. 

It’s jarring, for some reason. That he’s half-smiling and doing something he’s good at. (Something that’s _not_ plotting my downfall.) Something that’s just for fun.

Five seconds later, I realise that in two rotations, I’m going to have to be partners with Baz. _Fuck._ I’ll step on his toes, and he’ll fucking hex me—

One rotation. My sticks are sliding out of my sweaty palms. Merlin’s balls.

And then we’re across from each other. And I’m staring into his eyes, which are grey and full of a lighter mischief than usual. _Left._ I try not to step on him. _Right. Kick—_

I kick with the wrong foot and it connects with his shin. “Fucking _Crowley,_ Snow.” 

He glares, but doesn’t even miss a beat. We accidentally make eye contact again as I clack my sticks together, and I’m drawn in. 

“Don’t hit my face,” Baz drawls. I raise my stick to clash with his. (It feels like a duel. Like a miniature swordfight.)

It’s over in seconds—we rotate, and he’s gone.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

I’ve gotten better at keeping up with the dance, especially now I’ve started to think of it like sword fighting. (It’s easy. Parry left, parry right. It’s _fun.)_ And my gaze keeps getting drawn magnetically to Baz. 

He’s got to be plotting something. There has to be a reason he’s—

Looking at me.

Watching me with this open expression I’ve never seen on his face before. I don’t break eye contact, because it feels like a spell.

It feels like something I can’t resist.

I’m watching Baz dance while tripping over my feet and it occurs to me that he really _is_ fit, like everyone says. I mean, I knew it objectively. But he looks so long and lean in the _kurta,_ the way it hugs his shoulders and brushes his knees. The way his dark hair drapes along the collar. The way his mouth isn’t set in its usual grim line or malicious smirk.

Oh.

_Fuck._

Our eyes meet again, and we’re staring at each other like we’re star-crossed lovers in an old Bollywood film.

He looks alarmingly human right now, softer than I’ve ever known. _Handsome_ would be the word I guess, everything about him is—he’s smiling handsomely and tapping his sticks together, _kurta_ sleeves sliding down to reveal toned forearms.

 _“Phir se karenge!”_ someone yells. 

Our second rotation passes in a whirl. Thumping music, the clash of sticks. He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.

What was it Penny said? _The person you want._

Deepwater grey eyes. And a roguish, charming grin that can’t possibly be for me.

Baz Pitch is in front of me again, and I can’t believe that someone as evil as him could fit this well in a celebration of light, in a celebration of everything good and pure.

So maybe he’s not. (Evil, that is.)

I tap my sticks once, twice. With his, on the right. (Duel and parry.) With his, on the left. (This is better than fighting.) 

And spin.

I follow his form all the way down the line.

I tear my eyes away when Penny comes around again. “What is happening,” I whisper helplessly.

She laughs. “When I said to get along for a day, I didn’t mean _flirt_ with him–”

“I’m _not.”_

“Whatever you say.” _Tap. Tap._ “In any case, you make a good-looking couple.”

“You think?” 

Bronze and black. Blue and grey. Matching fucking _kurtas._

Penny rolls her eyes, and she’s gone. 

The dance dissipates a few rounds after that, everyone laughing and breaking away. I zone in on Baz—again. He looks cold, like he’s closed himself off. Like whatever magic was in his eyes during the dance has faded.

But I don’t want to _let_ it. I don’t want that version of Baz to go away. It had to be real… 

I stomp over to him for the second time tonight. My fingers close around his wrist and I’m dragging him away, none-too-gently. 

“Aleister Crowley, Snow,” he sneers. “You have the manners of an underfed bridge troll.”

He doesn’t wrench his hand away, though.

_Was it real?_

I drag him away to the side of the house even though we’re both still barefoot, and we’re surrounded by lights. String lights and floating lanterns and stars. They’re setting his eyes on fire. (But in a good way, this time.)

It’s all lit up; it’s _Diwali,_ after all. And Baz looks almost regal like this, with his jaw outlined in shadow, with slivers of warm orange light dancing across his hair. Like the exiled prince who’s finally come home.

“You can dance,” I say, dumbly. 

Baz looks down his nose at me. “Why have you dragged me out here, Snow? To state the obvious?”

_Was it real?_

My watch says it’s 8:58. And I’m standing much too close to Baz. Close enough that I can smell him. (Cedar and bergamot.) (And something else… pakoras? _Mithai?_ Both?)

_8:59._

“To see the fireworks,” I say. 

My hand’s still on his wrist. And he’s not moving away. I move my hands to his chest, onto the embroidered fabric of his _kurta,_ like I’m about to push him.

He’s so close I can feel his cool breath on my face. “Suppose we’ve missed out on our prize.”

 _Oh. That._ “Yeah.” 

This close, I have to tilt my head up a little to look at him. 

_When did he start talking in_ our, _and_ we? 

I move my hands to his shoulders, gripping tightly. “Baz, I– during the dance…” _Don’t look away, not now._ “Did you know what it means when you– when you make eye contact with someone?”

He hasn’t looked away. He hasn’t given an inch. Just drowns me in amber-lit grey. 

And nods. 

Above our heads, the first firework explodes in a shower of sound and colours. I look up, grinning. And then I take Baz by the back of the neck and kiss him.

He leans into it, wraps me in his arms instantly, as if he’d been waiting for permission to do just that. (Maybe he has. Maybe for a while.) Another firework shatters into the sky, and I feel the boom vibrate through the spot where our chests are pressed together.

His lips are turning warm between mine. And he tastes like _jalebi,_ which is literally the best possible taste I can imagine for a kiss. 

He’s a canvas under the vivid sky; flashing with shades of red and blue as new bursts echo into the sky. _Diwali rings in the New Year,_ is what Penny told me. _It symbolises new beginnings._

Baz’s arm is snug around my waist, and I curl myself into his shoulder. We look up as another firework explodes in a brilliant shower above our heads.

_New beginnings indeed._


End file.
